RewindReverse
by Polgaria
Summary: An altnerate universe role reversal. Andrea Saxton is the young, fanatic, and deplorable editor in chief of the worlds biggest fashion magazine RUNWAY. Miranda Princhek gets the job a million girls would kill for. Hilarity ensues. PLEASE R&R *loves*
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Miranda Princhek was desperate. She knew this. She knew her twins knew this, and yet for some unfathomable reason, she still regretted wholly her ascent through the swishy floors of Elias-Clarke building for what would surely be yet another disappointing interview.

When her second husband had filed for divorce, the only thing Miranda regretted the loss of was his support financially. Put plainly, she had grown accustomed to being taken care of. The personal chef, the housekeeper- those luxuries were now a pleasant dream of the night before, just waiting to be snatched away by reality as soon as she opened her eyes.

She'd been able to live off of the alimony for months, keeping her twins housed, clothed and fed, but while the constant stream of child support was enough to put a roof over her small family's head, it was hardly enough for anything else. Miranda needed work, and she needed it fast. And not just any job would do.

For if nothing else, Miranda Princhek still had her pride. God, she lived on it.

So when human resources at EC called and told her that a very important job as a personal assistant to a young, prominent editor had just come up, Miranda hauled her girls off to Dalton in a filthy cab she could ill afford, threw on what she hoped would be an appropriate outfit, and split for the publishing sector of grand NYC.

The elevator doors opened with a small chime. Miranda inhaled deeply, realising she'd stopped breathing some time ago. This wouldn't do. She was acting like a nervous child. This might be her last shot for a job at anyplace besides some grease-pit restaurant, but if anyone thought she was coming into this interview blind, they had another thing coming. Right after the summoning phone call from Elias-Clarke, Miranda had whipped out the last vestiges of her previous life: and expensive Blackberry she'd insisted Stephen pay for so she could keep in touch with her girls, regardless of where they were. The phone, being what it was, also had an indispensable connection to the internet and fabulous browsing capabilities.

Over that morning's breakfast with her children, in the taxi, while riding the subway and walking from the underground through the mountainous high rises, Miranda had been scrambling for information on her potential employer.

Andy Sachs had begun a young, driven woman of humble Midwest beginnings who had dropped out of high school at the age of sixteen and run away to New York, weaseled her talented way amidst designers and writers, only to leave them all miles behind, choking on her golden dust. At age twenty three, she began her career as a junior editor at Seventeen magazine, and when it was clear that little Andy was destined for far greater things, she was snatched up by Irv Ravitz of Elias-Clarke to begin her tenure as the editor in chief of the famous Runway magazine. At the tender age of twenty five, Andy Sachs became Andréa Saxton, trading in the mantle of her no-name origin for the chic pseudonym which was to quickly become one of the most iconic names in the fashion industry. Miranda could understand the switch- hell, she'd changed her own name from granny-bags 'Miriam' as soon as she was of age to do so.

Andréa Saxton. Miranda rolled her eyes. The young woman was barely out of fucking diapers, and yet…

She was the editor in chief of _the_ fashion magazine which, worldwide, had the final published word on a multi-billion dollar corporation responsible for countless jobs, and a massive facet of the economy. Miranda smirked admirably. The girl must have done something right.

She'd read on. The woman also appeared to be a notorious sadist, a demanding control freak, and all out nearly impossible to please. Miranda revelled in this last detail. If nothing else, Miranda was a people pleaser. And she would have _this_ job.

With that thrilling motivation, Miranda Princhek gathered her wits about her, took another deep breath, and waltzed purposefully into the hallowed glass halls of Runway.

Emily Chalton was sitting behind her curved, wooden desk, typing furiously away at the newest revision of Andrea's schedule. A bead of sweat had the audacity to trickle down the shallow valley between her non-existent cleavage, and the young Brit patted it away absently with her five hundred dollar couture tank.

This was promising to be the day of all days. Not only had Andréa decided to move up, throw back and all out cancel about a dozen meetings, seemingly on nothing but a whim, her tyrannical boss had also fired the last two assistants Emily had worked so hard to find, and in less than five minutes, the newest lamb was being sent up from HR to the slaughterhouse. While it was Emily's job to pre-interview this woman, this last hope at ever making it to Paris as Andréa Saxton's first assistant- the decision, of course, would rest with the editor herself. Emily prayed to god human resources had at last found someone competent.

When the frantic Englishwoman heard her name being queried at the reception desk outside the private offices of Runway's editor in chief, she began to lose that hope. When she rounded the corner on her four inch Blahnik's and saw the newest candidate, she nearly swallowed her tongue.

"Miranda Princhek?" she choked through ironic, hysterical laughter. "Well, Human Resources certainly has an _odd_ sense of humour!" The young woman beckoned quickly, and walked away.

Miranda rolled her eyes and followed the now retreating, twiggy upstart into the inner offices, smiling wryly at the cringing woman who sat at reception. The woman merely winced back. No matter. Despite the less than warm welcome, she was going to do what she came here to do.

Inside the twin-desked office, Miranda lay her Chanel trench and bag on the emptier of the two surfaces, adjusting the belt which cinched her silk blouse closely around her waist. She smoothed the soft fabric of her patched tweed pencil skirt over her thighs, and quickly checked her suede Prada pumps for evidence of having taken the subway.

Ms. Princhek may be a single mother of twins, a recent divorcee, and living in a raggedy two bedroom apartment on the upper-west side, but it certainly could not be said she didn't have a sense of fashion. And with all of the couture clothing purchased during her marriage to Stephen, what was the man going to do? Give it all to his twenty-nothing, size zero airhead of a mistress become girlfriend? Miranda didn't think so.

She was startled out of her self-satisfied reverie.

"So Miranda," Emily began, barely containing a snicker. "What brings you after the job of Andréa's personal assistant?"

Miranda held back a sneer, with difficulty. "Actually, I'm recently divorced, looking for work, and when I heard that Andréa Saxton was in need of a new assistant, I realised it as an opportunity to reintroduce myself into the world of fashion."

Emily nodded, a malicious twinkle in her ice blue eyes. "While it's obvious you have the experience and interest in fashion, you must realise that as Andréa's second assistant, you'll be running around the entirety of New York, without pause, often balancing a tray of lattes, five or six bags filled with clothing, your phone, and often-" Emily did snicker then, "Andréa's great Dane, by the name of Charles. A certain level of _stamina_ is required."

Miranda narrowed her eyes dangerously. "If you are implying that my age, all forty seven years of it, may impede my ability to run _errands_, you are mistaken. I've been running around after twins for fifteen years, demons the pair of-

Emily's phone chirped, cutting off the older woman's defensive diatribe. Miranda watched, an eyebrow quirked, as all traces of arrogance slid off the young woman's face to be replaced by a look of horror.

"No. No no no." Ageist harassment forgotten, Emily quickly whirled to the phone on her desk and frantically hit an in-office speed dial. "She's _here_! Tell _everyone_."

With those four words, Miranda Princhek watched as a seemingly statuesque office full of equally composed beauties transformed into a circus performance of panic and incompetence. Half-eaten meals were discarded and hidden, working messes were gathered and stashed. Everyone, male or female, seemed to be touching up flawlessly painted faces. Bemused, she turned her attention back to Emily, who was now hopping around the office in her stiletto boots, trying to carry magazines, push a rack full of dresses, and open a bottle of Pellegrino without falling off her heels and breaking an ankle.

Wordlessly, Miranda snatched the bottle from Emily's desperate grasp, twisted the lid off with strong fingers, and poured the sparkling liquid into a glass.

"Left side!" Emily hissed, depositing the magazines on the desk with a harried thump.

"Yours or mine?" Miranda inquired lightly.

"_Yours_!" the ginger brit exploded, splaying the glossy books across the glass surface like a magician with a deck of cards.

"Anything else?" Miranda queried, depositing the beverage on a coaster and sliding it to the left corner of the desk.

Emily glared at her, then snapped her fingers in a movement which looked like it might rip the scrawny arm out of it's socket. "Move that rack against the far wall, then shift yourself back out there and hang up your coat!"

As Miranda complied, a well-tailored man close to her own age strode into the office, looking pointedly at her before directing his attention to the whirlwind of couture and limbs which was Emily.

"She wasn't supposed to be here for another hour," he muttered to the young woman, annoyance furrowing his brow.

"Yes, well- her bloody masseuse had to go and tear a ligament in her wrist, didn't she?" Emily snatched a pile of boxes from atop her desk and hurriedly chucked them into an expansive filing cabinet. "Miranda- _coat_," she harped, straightening a loose pile of papers.

Miranda walked back out of Andréa's office, snatched her coat and bag off the desk, and leisurely hung them in the closet towards the kitchen.

"Who's _grandma_," the man inquired, so low he didn't think Miranda would hear.

"Don't even get me started on _that_," Emily croaked in obvious dismay.

Miranda pursed her lips, and closing the closet door, turned around in the most languorous manner she could manage. "Miranda Princhek," she purred, extending her hand. "And if I'm a grandmother, what on earth does that make _you_?"

Nigel smiled coyly, trying to disguise both his delight at the saucy remark and his surprise at the much younger face on the other side of the shocking white hair. He swept the proffered hand to his mouth for a chivalrous kiss. "My apologies, Miranda. My name is Nigel, I run the art department."

Miranda smiled her acquiescence. "How nice to meet you Nigel. As you may have guessed, I'm after the new assistant's job- though I'm beginning to wonder if I should have dyed my hair before I came in."

Nigel clasped the hand he still held on to, spinning Miranda this way and that. "The low pony is a little _maternal_," he mused, "but _dye_- withnatural silver like that? I'd strangle you myself."

Miranda _almost_ blushed.

"Don't touch it for now, but when you get the job, _which you will_, come down to the art department and we'll see about a new style for that gorgeous platinum of yours."

Miranda laughed warmly as Nigel exited the office, mirroring the little wave he gave as the doors closed behind him. At least someone in this office was _sane_.

That brief reprise soon went flying out the window, however, as Andréa Saxton entered the office, a scrambling Emily close on her heels.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

"**Honestly Emily- what in god's name is so **_**difficult **_**about confirming a simple appointment?"**

**The young English woman made a mad grab for the coat flung in front of her before the garment fell to the floor. "Actually, Andréa, I did confirm but-"**

"**Save it."**

**Emily shut her mouth and ran to the closet to dispose of the jacket and purse, wary that her blathering on might well get her fired. **

**Yet unnoticed, Miranda took the opportunity to study the young editor, who was flipping through the large spiral bound book she still held in her hands. Andréa maintained an impassive expression, her large brown eyes focused intently on the pages in front of her. A shock of dark chestnut hair framed the young woman's face in a saucy bob, severe straight cut bangs ending just above the expressive eyebrows. Miranda mused on Andréa's features- the young woman would be attractive if she ever dared smile. Somehow, that didn't seem likely. **

**Miranda's gaze lowered slowly over the rest of the slim form, noting the edgy sophisticatication of a cowl-neck blouse, and the chic pencil skirt ending just above the knees. The older woman blithely noted the presence of sling back Prada stilettos.**

**When Miranda returned her focus back to the editor's face, the young woman was looking at her piercingly, book forgotten. **

"**I didn't realise I was the one being interviewed," she commented scathingly. "Who are you?"**

**If the woman expected Miranda to fall all over herself in terror, she was sorely mistaken. "Miranda Princhek-" she offered coolly. "I was admiring the Prada sling backs you're wearing."**

**If Andréa Saxton was taken aback by the lack of awkwardness in the older woman's answer, she didn't show it. Instead, she placed the book on Emily's desk as stalked into her office. Miranda looked to Emily, who was breathing shallowly in the space between the closet and the kitchen. The young woman rolled her eyes and gestured dramatically towards the office for Miranda to follow. **

**For a brief moment, Miranda allowed herself to feel nervous, if only to reign in her reaction to Andréa's acerbic nature. Regardless of her initial impression of Andréa Saxton as rude, arrogant and catty- the young editor was also clearly talented, **_**and **_**her potential gateway to a serious career, a career Miranda had long abandoned hope of ever entering into while confined by overbearing husbands. Now that she finally had her prerogatives in the forefront, she could ill afford to sacrifice this opportunity for the sake of dressing down the snotty editor. **

**With a steadying breath, Miranda Princhek entered the den of the dragon.**

**Andréa looked up from the paper she was reading, shifting a stray lock of hair back into it's regimented position. **

"**What brings you to **_**Runway**_**?" she asked, nine tenths of her attention still on the news rag. Miranda found herself riling against the deliberate display of ignorance. **

"**Before I was married, I worked as a design consultant for several of the lead designers in Paris at the time. I had just started my job as junior editor at the French **_**Chic**_** when I met my first husband and got myself dragged pregnant back to America. After sixteen years in two stifling travesties of marriage, I find myself divorced again and needing more."**

**The young woman let the pages of newsprint fall to the desk, her full attention on Miranda. "An impressive resume- or it would be, if it were current. You are, self-confessed, over a decade past date Ms. Princhek. What **_**possible **_**use could I have for a washed up relic?"**

**Miranda winced slightly- that had stung. It was one thing to be on the receiving end of Nigel's gentle prodding, but to be likened to an expired container of yogurt forgotten in the refrigerator was a little more than even Miranda could bear. **

**She exhaled heavily, absently adjusting the broad leather belt at her waist. **

"**I'll admit that I've been on the outside of fashion for several years, but that doesn't mean I wasn't talented or dedicated when I worked in Paris. I'm not young, and I'm not gorgeous- but I'm intelligent, experienced and-" she paused to inhale, embarrassed at the timorous shaking audible in her breath, "-and I **_**need**_** this job."**

_**Shit**_**, Miranda cursed inwardly**_**, how did **_**that**_** slip out? **_**Not wanting to sound desperate, though she was, the older woman amended her last statement.**

"**I'm tired of standing around in the background like some useless housewife. I want back into fashion, and working for the most prominent publication in couture has obvious attraction. I think you'll find I'm quite capable."**

_**Much better, **_**Miranda told herself, and then willed her mouth shut to give Andréa a moment to consider her statement.**

**It was a long moment. Andréa lowered her chin, eyeing Miranda from beneath a shock of dark, silky bangs. The seconds stretched immeasurably to the point where the older woman actually considered cutting her losses and getting the hell away from that surreal, x-ray gaze.**

"**Hired," Andréa offered suddenly, returning her attention to the newspaper on her desk. "Your first task upon your re-entry into **_**fashion**_**: Starbucks. Emily will fill you in on the details. **_**Scoot**_**."**

**Miranda blinked, turned quickly on her Prada heel, and evacuated. **

**When the elation at having gotten the job dissolved, Miranda had the presence of mind to be offended that she'd just been sent from the editor's office like a five year old to bed. Rolling her eyes heavenward in a moment of much needed derision, Miranda quickly approached Emily for the **_**details**_** on her first assignment. **

"**Andréa wants coffee- what are the particulars?" Miranda figured that anyone with Andréa's certain brand of drive would be after something laden with espresso. "Americano? Triple shot latte?"**

**Emily looked up from the magazine she was dutifully marking with coloured flags. "Decaf tall non-fat, three-pump-vanilla, **_**caramel macchiato**_**- extra caramel."**

**Miranda's well sculpted eyebrows rose dubiously. "Should I bring back an insulin injection as well?"**

**Emily's face screwed up in horror. "**_**Shush!**_** If Andréa hears you, we'll both get sacked. Don't be a smartass, just memorize that order and shift yourself downstairs before she inquires why you haven't left yet!" The young brit glanced around, then leaned towards Miranda in obvious conspiracy. "The woman is like a hummingbird on **_**crack**_**," she whispered suddenly. "She drinks about five of those things a day, never puts on a pound, and has teeth like pearls!"**

**Miranda nodded, her eyebrows climbing nearly into her hairline. Without a word, she strode briskly to the closet, collected her coat and bag, and left the office to begin what would become an all too familiar jaunt to the neighbourhood Starbucks.**

**As Miranda waited in line, she realised it was nearly ten thirty, a time she knew both of her fifteen year old daughters had a spare study period. She removed her cell phone from the recesses of her Chanel bag and after a moment of indecision, dialled Caroline's number. She'd call through Cassidy next time. The phone rang several times before her daughter picked up.**

"**Mum? Where are you? Did you get the job?" Caroline sounded breathless with excitement.**

"**Hi sweetheart," Miranda began, smiling. "I'm fetching coffee. And yes, I got the job."**

**At the other end of the line, the woman heard the ecstatic recount for the benefit of Cassidy. Miranda laughed warmly. "Put me on speakerphone, darling, so I don't have to endure your frantic twin-speak." **

"_**Mum**_**," Caroline groaned, but the sequence of beeps told Miranda that her daughter had done as she asked. "There- Cass can hear you too. So- tell us what happened!"**

**Miranda sighed happily. If there was one aspect of sacrificing her career for marriage she was grateful for, it was the closeness she shared with her twin daughters now. **

"**Nothing terribly exciting, my girls. I went in, got called 'grandma', was compared to expired dairy products, and got hired on the spot. The woman I now work **_**for **_**looks young enough to be your slightly elder sister, and the woman I work **_**with**_** has a pole stuck so far up her british ass she-"**

**Miranda was interrupted by twin gasps of horror at the mild expletive.**

"**Don't play innocent with me you horrors," the woman laughed, stepping closer to the counter as the line moved slowly forwards. "Anyway," she murmured, allowing her insecurities to shine through only for a moment, "I don't think anyone in this building is over thirty years old, except Nigel. Your poor mother might go through a midlife crisis before the week is out."**

**Caroline piped up first. "Mummy, don't be **_**ridiculous**_**. You're gorgeous! And stylish and a genius- those **_**barbies**_** won't know what hit them!"**

"**Thank you, sweet thing," Miranda replied gently.**

**There was a pause in the conversation, then Cassidy's voice could be heard on the other end. "And who's **_**Nigel**_**?"**

**Miranda rolled her eyes. "He's the director of the art department at **_**Runway**_**, and don't even think about any ill-conceived matchmaking because my gay-dar read a clear seven point nine this morning and the last time I checked, I wasn't a man."**

**Identical giggling filled the twin's end of the line. "What time will you be home tonight Mum?" That was Cassidy.**

"**I'm not sure Cass. Are you two still heading to Annie's after school to work on that presentation?"**

"**Yes Mum," came the chorused reply. **

"**That's good. I have a feeling I might be late. You both have keys, so make sure you eat something at Anne's house, and for goodness sakes, let her mother drive the pair of you home. I don't want any late night cab excursions. Understood?"**

"_**Yes Mother**_**," came the exasperated reply. Realising that mother-daughter camaraderie only extended so far, Miranda smiled. **

"**Good girls. I'm next in line, so I'll let the two of you get back to the schoolwork I'm sure you were **_**diligently**_** completing before I interrupted. Take care of each other, I'll see you later tonight."**

"**Bye Mum. We love you." **

"**I love you too, babies."**

**Miranda ended the call just as the man in front of her moved to the side to collect his order. A spirited, if frazzled girl looked inquisitively at her. The newest assistant to **_**Runway's**_** editor in chief delved into her eidetic memory for the convoluted beverage specs and approached the counter. **

"**I need one- dear god, bear with me. It's a decaf tall, non-fat, three-pump-vanilla, caramel macchiato- **

"**With extra caramel?" the young woman inquired cheekily. **

**Miranda smiled wryly. "You've got it."**

**The girl called the drink out to a stoic barista, who quickly set about steaming milk. Miranda contemplated ordering an americano for herself, quickly deciding against it for fear she would upset some unspoken office taboo. **

"**So," the girl began casually as Miranda handed over the cash, "you work for Andréa Saxton?"**

**The platinum head nodded. "Started all of ten minutes ago. Should be… **_**interesting**_**."**

**The cashier offered a commiserating look and handed Miranda her change. "You seem like a nice lady- good luck with that."**

**Miranda, who couldn't decide whether or not to thank the young woman, pocketed the money and the receipt, and moved to the right to wait for the syrupy drink. **

**When Miranda returned to the office, coffee -if you could call it that- in tow, the place was in renewed upheaval. Miranda hadn't even been gone ten minutes.**

**At least ten frantic women were tottering back and forth out of Andréa's office, arms laden with clothing, Emily was standing off to one corner furiously writing down whatever stray comment left the editor's pouted lips, and Nigel, Miranda noticed, was standing to Andréa's right with a mildly amused expression on his face. **

_**What the hell is this all about?**_** Miranda pantomimed, nearly sloshing Ms. Saxton's coffee all over Emily's Parisian themed screen. **

_**Run-through**_** Nigel mouthed back, rolling his eyes. **

**Miranda nodded vaguely. Run-through her forty-seven-year-old **_**behind**_**. This was a travesty. The last run-through she bore witness to, albeit over fifteen years ago. had been an organized affair with only herself, the editor in chief, and a couple of competent assistants present. The utter chaos that now occupied the inner sanctum of Andréa Saxton was laughable. **

**Smirking, Miranda breezed into the office and deposited the coffee on Andréa's desk. **

**The younger woman, who had been in the middle of a tirade concerning the lack of interesting jackets to accompany a particular skirt, stopped mid-sentence to glare at her. **

"**Something amusing?"**

**Miranda quickly checked her expression in favour of a look of feigned curiosity. "Not at all. It's been too long since I've witnessed a run-through. Who designed that-**

"**Whatever," Andréa offered flippantly, snatching the macchiato off the pristine glass surface. "I need you to go to the millinery of Jane Taylor and pick up several hats I had delivered from London. **_**Scoot**_**."**

**Miranda glanced at Nigel, who gave her a sympathetic, if abrupt smile. "West 34th**** and 8****th****," he whispered, "Third floor."**

**Miranda mouthed a sincere **_**thank you**_** and exited the office at a near sprint. In that moment, it became obvious to the re-emerging fashionista that if nothing else, she wasn't going to have to pay for a gym membership any longer. **

**After visiting the millinery and realising Andréa Saxton's penchant for extremely expensive, custom made hats, Miranda was then fielded off to Chanel for skirts, Blahnik for shoes, and finally, The Ritzy Canine Carriage House on 40****th**** east to collect the fetching Charles himself from his three day stay at the doggie spa, required of course to de-stress the great dane and deal with his arthritic right forepaw. Those were the highlights. Miranda also had to make a trip to a lingerie shop to pick up a non-descript garment bag, run to the nearest pharmacy to purchase **_**fucking**_** tampons- not for herself- and then off to Hallmark where she spent at least forty minutes trying to find an appropriate anniversary card from Andréa to her husband of one year, tomorrow.**

**During all of this, Miranda also purchased and delivered in person three more rounds of Andréa's preferred beverage, from barista to desk in less than three minutes flat. **

**At eight o'clock that evening, the second assistant deposited the small, beige envelope with card on Andréa's thankfully vacant desk, and was told none too kindly by Emily to **_**bugger off home**_** before the editor thought of any other unpleasant task she needed Miranda to perform. Miranda fled.**

**Upon arriving home, the wilting presence of Miranda Princhek staggered painfully to the long tweed chaise she'd managed to claim during the divorce proceedings, and flopped unceremoniously backwards into the welcoming softness. She was asleep before she fully connected with lounge, Prada heels still on her feet. **

**At ten-thirty, Cassidy and Caroline Princhek entered the small flat they shared with their mother, gabbing and giggling as only fifteen year old twins could manage. **

**Caroline stopped short when she noticed her mother's sleeping figure draped limply over the living room couch. One delicate hand was flung over her face, presumably blocking out the fluorescent light of the kitchen that someone had left on during the morning rush to vacate the apartment. At some point, her hair had come undone and was fanned lightly around her face in a silvery halo. The woman was still wearing her work clothes, her trench coat, and Caroline noted with a small sigh that yes, her mother was still wearing her shoes, too. **

**Cassidy giggled. **

"**Shut up, Cass," Caroline admonished gently. "She's totally exhausted. Help me get her to bed- she can't sleep **_**there**_** all night."**

**Cassidy nodded and each twin linked their arms under opposite armpits, hauling their near comatose mother to her feet. **

**Upon the disturbance, Miranda stirred slightly and muttered something about not wanting to buy any more tampons. At this statement, Caroline and Cassidy simultaneously dissolved into giggles, nearly dropping Miranda in the middle of the ten meter excursion from chaise to bed. **

"_**Carrody**_**?" Miranda muttered sleepily, combining her twins names. "Wha- what time is it?"**

"**Quarter to eleven," Caroline offered as she sat her mother on the bed and removed the Prada pumps from her feet. Miranda's toes curled in relief. **

"**Lie back Mum," Cassidy instructed, lying down on the comforter, pulling Miranda with her. **

**Sleepily, Miranda let her exhausted body flop backwards onto the welcoming bed. Cassidy held her mother's hand, softly tracing designs on the palm. Caroline, still at the foot of the bed, grabbed the coverlet and settling down on the other side of Miranda, pulled the warm blanket over the three of them.**

**Gingerly, Caroline ran her fingers through her mother's long, soft hair before leaning over and kissing Miranda's smooth cheek. **

"**Love you Mum," she murmured, snuggling against Miranda's side. **

"**Love you Caro," Miranda yawned. She turned her head slightly to face her other daughter. **

**Cassidy kissed her mother on the point of her nose. "Love you Mummy."**

**Miranda smiled, wrinkling the aquiline feature. "Love you Cass."**

**Miranda Princhek fell into a deep sleep, ensconced by twin daughters, and content with the fact that she'd already set her alarm for five-thirty the next morning. **


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

**Miranda was having a peculiar dream. She was in the offices of **_**Runway**_**, Andréa Saxton's office precisely, and yet it wasn't Andréa's office. When she glanced at the photos on the wall, she noticed a subtle black and white picture of her girls, taken very obviously in Paris. Miranda recognized the photo immediately, from a vacation they'd been on only months before Stephen had coolly initiated their divorce. The twins were standing in front of some couture shop of a Parisian designer, dramatically striking poses straight out of the pages of **_**Vogue.**_** Miranda had taken the picture herself, and it was one of her favourites. The woman allowed herself a small, private smile before she glanced up to a disturbance at the perimeter of her office.**

**Emily. The young brit was standing in the doorway, pathetically dithering on about complications with moving the run-through up three days. Miranda felt the strangest urge to strangle her. **

"**Emily, bore someone else with the details of your incompetence. That's all."**

**The first assistant stood gaping for a moment, but her codfish imitation was cut blissfully short by a long, shrill tone which blared incessantly through the room…**

**Miranda forced her eyes open, rubbing them blearily with the back of her hand. While Cassidy had sprawled away from her mother sometime during the night, Caroline was wedged firmly against Miranda's right side, trapping the woman's arm under dead weight that was the softly snoring teenager. **

**As she tried to disentangle herself from the blankets, Cassidy groaned her way into consciousness. **

"_**Fuck**_** that **_**noise**_**," she grumbled, rolling over and wedging a pillow firmly over her head. **

**Miranda was about to chastise her daughter's less than desirable language, when smirking, she realised she'd been thinking something much along the same line. **

**Groggily, she sat up and negotiated her way through a tangle of limbs to the alarm clock and switched the screaming machine off. Five-thirty in the morning. Miranda could never boast an ability to sleep in, but seven o'clock was when she usually deemed fit to grace the world with her presence. Not before. **

**With resignation, Miranda reset the timer for her girls and exited the bedroom, noting with displeasure the coldness of the kitchen floor as her feet came in contact with the offending linoleum. Shuddering with distaste, she flipped the kettle on and dumped several heaping spoonfuls of grinds into a large french press. Already having endured one full day of Andréa Saxton sans caffeine, Miranda was about to make damn sure it didn't happen again. **

**As she sat sipping the scalding brew, a pair of sleepy footsteps shuffled their way towards her. **

"**Caro- sweetheart," Miranda admonished gently. "It's only quarter to six, you should go back to bed."**

**Caroline blinked tiredly and continued the pilgrimage towards her mother's seated form, a large coverlet draped cape-like around her shoulders. **

"**You left," she offered simply, wrapping her arms around her mother from behind. "The bed got cold." **

**Miranda smiled and relaxed into the embrace. Of the twins, Cassidy had always been more independent, aloof even. But Caroline was thoughtful and demonstrative of her affections, even now at the height of her adolescence.**

"**Do you really have to go to work this early?" Caro asked, nuzzling her face sleepily into her mother's shoulder.**

"**Afraid so baby," Miranda replied, reaching up to run her fingers through her daughter's silky red hair. Emily had been very specific. Into the office at no later than six thirty, and Miranda still had to shower, get dressed, and make the subway ride to the building. "I've got to hop in the shower, now. Why don't you go try to go back to sleep, honey."**

**Caroline yawned again and tightened her arms around her mother's small frame before shuffling back into the master bedroom for another hour or so of sleep. A fond smile gracing her full mouth, Miranda walked into the miniscule bathroom to begin her day. **

**Miranda Princhek entered the inner offices of **_**Runway**_** with a tray of Starbucks balanced against her hip. With the minutes to spare upon arriving at the bottom of the Elias-Clarke building, she'd decided to make a coffee run in case Andréa was already in the office. Aside from the fact that the morning carafe of coffee had not been nearly enough to satisfy the older woman's caffeine requirements, she'd decided that a little pre-emptive action regarding Andréa's addiction to the extra sweet caramel macchiato couldn't hurt, either. A triple grande, skim, no foam latte occupied the second depression in the tray, and two americanos stoically flanked the aforementioned beverages. Miranda smiled ruefully to herself as she set the tray down and offered one of the surplus coffees to Emily. **

**Surprised, Emily gingerly accepted the cup with a mumbled 'thank you' and returned to her keyboard. **

"**Is Andréa here already?" Miranda queried, taking a sip of her scalding latte. **

"**In the art department," Emily replied in clipped tones, not bothering to look up from her work. **

**The older woman nodded and moved to hang up her coat before sitting down behind the empty desk. Apparently the gifted americano had only garnered the young woman's short supply of civility for mere seconds. Not sure what to do with herself, she flipped the mac's monitor on and prepared to at least **_**look**_** busy. **

**When Emily's phone rang and the young Englishwoman stood to move briskly from the room, Miranda **_**might**_** have panicked slightly. **

"**What's happening?" she asked, keeping her voice as level as possible. **

"_**Someone**_** has cocked up a delivery form somewhere and security won't let the man bringing the scarves for this afternoon's shoot onto the elevator. I have to go downstairs. Whatever happens, you **_**do not**_** leave that desk Miranda. If the phone rings, answer it and take a message. I'll be back in five minutes." **

**Miranda nodded silently, a dozen unspoken replies on her tongue. When the door shut behind the young woman, she rolled her eyes. This job was clearly going to demand that tight reins be placed on her naturally sarcastic mouth. **

**Thankfully, the phone did not deign to ring and Miranda spent the time instead bringing up and studying the scheduling program **_**Runway**_** used. Computers had never been an interest, but the platinum haired mother of two always had a working knowledge of the latest systems thanks to her technology obsessed twins. When Miranda realised that the application was simple enough, she relaxed slightly. Taking another sip of her latte before it became too cold to palate, the woman looked up when the slim form of Andréa Saxton breezed past and into her office. **

'**Good morning' died on her lips and she cocked her head ruefully. This was going to be some job. **

"**Miranda," came the disembodied demand from around the corner. Smiling, Miranda removed the macchiato from it's double cup and strode into Andréa's presence. **

**The young woman was already seated behind the long, slim desk and was focused intently on the screen of the macbook in front of her. Without looking up, she began the directive for the morning. **

"**Go to Starbucks and get my coffee. When you get back, I need the proofs from the shoot on Tuesday from the art department, and then I want you to go to the millinery again and tell whichever of Jane Taylor's lackeys you spoke with yesterday that the lotus hat is in the wrong colour. **_**Scoot**_**."**

**Smirking, Miranda approached the desk and waited for Andréa's acknowledgement. **

"**What are you still doing here? Have you suffered a sudden fit of narcolepsy or something? I **_**said**_**-**

"**Actually- I already have your coffee, Andréa," the older woman said levelly, holding the cup out in front of her. "Macchiato?"**

**Andréa narrowed her eyes before pouting her lower lip, and darted forward over the laptop to snatch the coffee out of Miranda****'s hand. The older woman smiled pleasantly before turning smartly and walking to the closet to get her coat. **

**The remainder of the day passed quickly enough, and without significant disaster. Miranda had just flipped the monitor of her computer off and was about to collect her things from the closet when Nigel entered the office and leaned casually against the raised shelves of Miranda's desk. **

"**Evening gorgeous," he offered, distractedly looking a the picture of the twins Miranda had on her desk. It was the same one that had been in her strange dream of the night before. "Cute kids."**

"**Thank you," Miranda accepted, smiling genuinely. "That was taken in Paris a couple of months before my husband decided to leave me. My girls are a pair of diva's, but I suppose they come by it honestly."**

"**Amen to that," Nigel stated dramatically and adjusted his tie. "So," he continued coyly, "you've got the dream job- how about a dream style to frame that lovely face of yours?"**

"**What- --now?" Miranda checked her watch and was about to graciously decline when she realised that the twins were at their father's that evening. **

"**Yes **_**now**_**," the man said with mock impatience. "Unless you were planning on bringing **_**grandma**_** chic into style. I've got a talented man with a pair of scissors just **_**dying **_**to meet your platinum locks down in beauty. What do you say?"**

**Miranda tried to play it cool, but the prospect of being pampered by a professional stylist overwhelmed her quickly, and with an impish smile she rounded the desk and linked arms with the art director. In a grand show of genteelness, Nigel made a small bow and led the laughing Miranda down the hallway.**

**Three quarters of an hour later, Miranda was standing sceptically in front of a mirror, a smugly grinning Nigel behind her. Tentatively she swept the daring forelock across her forehead, then pursed her lips. **

"**You look mah-vellous darling," Nigel crooned, dropping a long, beaded Chanel necklace over her head. Miranda twirled the newest addition to her wardrobe between nervous fingers. **

"**You don't think it's-**

"**Too K D Lang?" Nigel finished cheekily. "I thought that at first, but no- not with those eyes and your fabulous cheekbones. In fact Ms. Thing, you look like you could run this rag we all work at." **

**Nigel stepped back as Miranda continued to regard herself dubiously. With a small smile, she admitted to herself that she did, in fact, look quite chic- and superior. Narrowing her eyes, she turned to Nigel and pouted her lower lip. **

"**Get me that decaf saccharine excuse for coffee I like. Then go out and buy my a pony. Why are you still standing there? Did you suffer an aneurism and forget how to walk? **_**Scoot.**_**"**

**Nigel dissolved in a fit of hysterical laugher, trying to muffle his treacherous glee with the back of his hand. "You're going to get us all **_**fired**_**," he accused, choking on his mirth. **

**A warm peal of laughter escaped Miranda's still pouted lips and the subterfuge was over. "And wouldn't that be the end of all our lives," she commiserated. "Tell you what- I'm feeling particularly sassy with this new coiffure. Why don't we go out for some dancing and drinks? My girls are at their father's tonight and I don't feel like going home to an empty apartment just yet."**

**Nigel grinned and gestured for Miranda to lead the way, playfully patting her bottom as she moved through the doorway. **

"_**Down**_** boy," she growled seductively. "You and I both know you've no interest in the fairer sex."**

"**True," he offered agreeably, "but with you on my arm tonight, won't all those poor saps who are be positively **_**green **_**with envy."**


	4. Chapter 4

_**Chapter 4**_

_**When Miranda sashayed into the office the next morning at twenty after six and presented Emily with another americano, the young woman actually dropped the pen she had been writing with as she tried to absorb the modified appearance of the older woman. **_

_**Miranda had donned a simple black dress with a flattering neckline that exposed her shapely shoulders. She was wearing the Chanel necklace that Nigel had left with her, and a wide, distressed leather belt cinched the fabric of the dress flatteringly around her curves. The shocking silver forelock, which was quickly to become her signature, fell playfully down over her deep blue eyes. **_

"_**Miranda," Emily began, her tongue twisting around the compliment she was attempting to pay, "you look so chic**_**!"**

**Miranda smirked at the young woman's obvious shock and moved to place her bag in the closet.**

"**It's been known to happen," she commented derisively. **

**Emily shut her gaping mouth and returned to her notes, taking a grateful sip of the americano when she thought Miranda wasn't looking. The older woman rolled her eyes as she took her place behind the desk of the second assistant. Someone really needed to tell the brit to- how did Caro put it? **_**Chill the frig out.**_

**Miranda surveyed the young woman over the top of her monitor while pretending to familiarize herself with that day's schedule. **_**Grumpy little thing**_**, she thought to herself, and wondered if, for the sake of her own sanity, there was anything she could do to mellow out the high strung Englishwoman. She pursed her lips.**

**Perhaps the first assistant's rudeness was a character flaw, or maybe it was a front she erected to protect herself from the cutthroat atmosphere at **_**Runway. **_**Miranda could understand that. But Emily worked for Andréa directly, and that was the next best thing to immunity as far as how the other magazine employees treated her. Could it be that Andréa Saxton's incurable attitude had simply rubbed off on her? At a loss, Miranda's mind drifted to thoughts of her daughters and hoped that their father had remembered to give them money for lunch at school. **_**Lunch.**_

**Miranda peered over the top of her screen at Emily. The girl was thin, obviously- too thin as far as the older woman was concerned. Underneath the avant guard make-up, Miranda could see the tired, pinched looking skin around the brit's glassy blue eyes. **

**Knowing how grouchy she got when she missed a meal and her blood sugar dipped, Miranda was amazed that the young woman, who ran on empty, hadn't actually strangled anyone yet. Question answered, the older woman opened her desk drawer and pulled out one of the several snack bars she had stashed there. After the first day of running errands, Miranda had taken to tossing one into her purse whenever Andréa sent her out on one of her endless directives. Miranda glanced furtively towards Andréa's office and noted that the room was blissfully empty, save for a rack of stunning evening gowns. The off-centered neckline of several of the pieces looked somehow familiar, but now was not the time. She was on a mission.**

"**Here," she stated, tossing the bar across the narrow space between their desks. Emily fumbled briefly before she caught the offering. Clutching the gifted item in her hand, she glared at Miranda. **

"**What the bloody hell-**

**Miranda sighed. "Emily- you and your consistently empty stomach are not an endearing duo. The only thing I've seen you eat in the three days since I started here is that cube of cheese you furtively popped into your mouth yesterday afternoon." When the young woman stared at her like she'd lost her mind, Miranda had a sudden epiphany, coming to her as if out of a dream. "Don't read the label. Don't analyze it. Just **_**eat **_**it…… That's all."**

**Emily blinked. Then she removed the wrapper, surveyed the granola bar, and promptly ate the entire thing. Sighing contentedly, she tossed the empty cellophane into the wastebasket and looked at Miranda, who was busy printing out the set list of errands she had to run that morning. The arm of her glasses was trapped endearingly between her lips as she reviewed her orders.**

**The older woman glanced up to find the young woman actually **_**smiling**_**.**

"**Miranda I-**

"**Hmm?"**

**Emily bobbed her head awkwardly, though her smile widened. "**_**Thank you.**_**"**

**Miranda shook her head, smirking. "You're welcome."**

**The unusually genial moment between the two assistants was cut short by Andréa's entrance. She was trailed by an older man, who was speaking animatedly with the assistance of broad, expressive hand gestures. Without comment, the young editor turfed her coat and bag in Miranda's general direction and strode briskly into her office. The man, who had briefly stopped his excited dissertation. nodded cordially to Andréa's assistants and walked into the young woman's office. Then he walked back out again. **

"**You," he murmured, pointing a knowing figure at Miranda. "**_**Attends, je cherche**_**."**

**Miranda smiled blankly at the strange Frenchman standing in front of her desk and was beginning to feel uncomfortable when a strange sense of déjà vu overtook her senses. If she took a few pounds off of the man, imagined a fuller head of hair, he looked like he could be-**

"**Miranda!" the gentleman exclaimed suddenly, a smile warming his intense features. **

"**Christian? Lacroix?"**

"**The same, **_**Mademoiselle**_**. The very same!"**

**Miranda laughed becomingly. "I don't think 'mademoiselle' applies anymore, Christian. I'm nearly fifty years old, you know!"**

**Monsieur Lacroix moved around the desk and brought Miranda's hand to his mouth for a delicate kiss. "Ah, but the light in your eyes is that of a young girl, and your gracious smile- **_**hors du temp, ma minette."**_

"**Flatterer", Miranda mumbled, but she felt a warm blush colouring her cheeks. When was the last time a dashing Parisian told her that her smile was **_**timeless**_**? Fifteen years ago, she thought ruefully. **

"**How touching," came the scathing comment from the editor's doorway. **

**Miranda tore herself away from her old friend and saw that Andréa was glowering at her from underneath dark bangs. Remembering herself, the older woman decided damage control was pertinent next step. **

"**Well, my dear friend," she began warmly. "I won't deter you from your business further. A talented man like yourself must be very busy. It was wonderful to see you again."**

**Christian waved the awkwardness away with a flippant movement of his hands. "Nonsense, **_**cherie**_**. I am here on business, yes, but it is a business in which I think **_**you**_** might be quite interested. I am to open a **_**salon**_** of couture in this very city, and **_**Mademoiselle**_** Andréa has kindly offered to run an exposé of my humble shop in the next issue of **_**Runway.**_** Come," he said, pulling her gently towards the office, "there are several pieces I have brought with me which I think you would like to see."**

**Miranda glanced at the editor, who's expression had shifted into one of carefully contained rage, hidden under a façade of geniality. The older woman smirked inwardly. Andréa was clearly caught between denying Miranda entrance- which would obviously be quite distressing to the famous Parisian designer- and playing nice to keep Lacroix under her thumb. If **_**Runway**_** were the first American couture publication to endorse the entrance of the Christian Lacroix line into the bosom of New York's fashion scene, the designer would obviously owe some kind of loyalty to the young editor, and Andréa Saxton liked people best when they owed her something. This was going to be **_**fun**_**.**

**Lacroix drew Miranda into the office, his hand barely present at the small of her back. He stood expectantly in front of the rack of clothing, waiting for her input.**

"**These are yours?" she asked, stepping forwards to finger the delicate fabric of an evening gown. Christian nodded, pleased that his old friend felt comfortable enough to engage with his work. **

"_**À l'oeuvre on reconnaît l'artisan,**_**" Miranda offered, entranced. "I'd recognize that daring asymmetrical neckline anywhere."**

**Beaming, the older man shifted several garments aside and produced a startling gorgeous cocktail dress in a luxurious champagne coloured silk. The neckline was a delicately folded, off the shoulder style with a simple bodice that flowed seamlessly into the asymmetrical skirt. Along the hemline, another fold echoed the design and caused the fabric to fall in a delicate arch. Miranda, not usually one to become emotional in public, was surprised to feel tears stinging at her eyes.**

"_**À l'oeuvre on reconnaît l'artisan. **_**You can tell an artist by her handiwork." Christian said gently. "**_**Touché**_**, **_**ma minette. **_**What do you think?"**

"**Where-" Miranda noted with distress that her voice wavered, betraying the effect the older man's gesture was having on her. She cleared her throat. "How have you done this?" **

**Lacroix grinned. "When I moved studios last year, an assistant found the sketch and recognizing the quality of the design, brought it to my attention. Imagine my surprise when I found that flourished 'MP' scrawled hastily in the corner. As soon as we were set up in the new location, I began work on the piece immediately. It is fate, I think, that you should be here now to witness the realisation of your talent." Christian stepped closer to Miranda and gently took her trembling hand. "We were sorry to see you leave when that cretin you married stole you away to America. Such a waste, we thought. I, especially."**

**Miranda could only nod, not trusting herself to maintain the required air of calm in front of Andréa, who was at this point staring at the dress in ill-disguised shock. Sensing an immediate need to lighten the mood, Lacroix stepped in again. **

"**So tell me, Miranda- how is the cretin?"**

**Miranda laughed outright. "Stealing someone else away, actually. So is the second cretin I married. You know what they say: **_**Qui se marie à la hâte se repent à loisir. **_**And my **_**god**_**, I repent."**

**A bark of amusement left Christian Lacroix. "So you will have no qualms in joining me for dinner this evening, no? I hear there is a wonderful french restaurant near the hotel I am staying at, **_**Le Bernardin **_**it is called."**

"_**Tu me gâtes, Christian!**_**" Miranda exclaimed delightedly.**_** "C'est le coup de barre, là.**_**"**

"_**C'est mon plaisir, **_**Miranda, and my nose's as well. It is good to see an old friend again."**

**Miranda smiled warmly at the designer before remembering the editor. The woman in question was still staring at the dress in Lacroix's hands, a bemused expression on her face. **

"**Miranda, I need coffee. When you get back, I want you to have Emily prep you for the benefit this Saturday. You will be attending with me. Also, have Emily give you the key to my penthouse. You will be delivering the book tonight. You received the lists of other tasks I sent you this morning?" Miranda managed to nod. "Good. Make sure to bring the jackets from Dolce to me as soon as you get back."**

**Miranda waited, the requisite **_**scoot**_** not having been present to signal the end of the conversation. When it didn't come, Miranda turned to Christian and placed a light kiss on both of the older man's cheeks. **

"_**Jusqu'à ce soir, Monsieur.**_**"**

"_**Mieux vaut tard que jamais,**_**" Christian replied quietly, smoothing the silk of Miranda's dress.**

**Better late than never.**


	5. Chapter 5

_**Chapter 5**_

_**After Miranda delivered the diabetic macchiato, in a record setting two minutes after the barista set it on the beverage ledge, she approached Emily, who was comprising a list of alternative massage therapists to replace the one Andréa had no doubt fired.**_

_**The brit looked up from the mess of resumes on her desk and regarded the older woman almost thoughtfully. **_

"_**Andréa wants me to attend the benefit this Saturday with the two of you- she mentioned something about prepping for it?"**_

_**Emily nodded, somewhat vaguely. "Yes. Well, I'd be offended, really- usually it's only the first assistant who attends with Andréa, but-" she looked meaningfully into the office, where the Lacroix dresses, and Miranda's design still hung from the rack, "you obviously deserve to be there. You didn't mention you were a designer before you were married."**_

_**Miranda shook her head modestly. "I wasn't. I was an assistant**_** to designers, an occasional consultant. I didn't produce one garment, never mind an entire line." She smiled, somewhat ruefully. "It was a different time, then. Women were models, not designers- and I wasn't tall enough or thin enough to grace the catwalk. Not that I wanted to. I was drawn by the creative aspect of fashion, of emerging ideas. I wanted to share that interest with the world, so I moved onto **_**Chic**_**, while moonlighting with Christian and several other Parisian designers. Then Greg came along, and- well. I put it all behind me. I had to."**

**Miranda fidgeted with the long chain around her neck, twisting it between fidgeting fingers. More uncomfortable than the curt Englishwoman showing an interest in her past was the realization of what she'd given up to marry Greg. Her promising career, a chance to escape anonymity. It was all lost to a foolish and hasty coupling with a man who turned out to be nothing but selfish. **

**But because of him, she had her girls, and Miranda chastised herself for her lapse into nostalgia and self pity. Clearing her throat, she willed her hand to rest casually on the desk. The Chanel necklace didn't deserve the strangulation being visited upon it. Besides. She had a job to do. **

"**The benefit?" she prompted, anxious to abandon the twisted path her thoughts were drawing her down.**

**Emily nodded briskly and pulled a double binder from a drawer in her sleek desk. "Right. Andréa attends the benefits, but we're the ones responsible for making sure she doesn't walk in blindly. **_**Everyone**_** knows who Andréa is, and everyone will want to speak with her during the evening. Obviously, she can't be expected to remember **_**who**_** all of these people are. That lovely task is left to us. In these binders are pictures of everyone on the guest list, with corresponding names, titles, occupations, marital status and," she sniffed disdainfully, "**_**extramarital **_**status."**

**Miranda raised a disenchanted eyebrow. ****"Do you mean to say we are expected to not only memorize who these people are, but also the people they're having affairs with?"**

**That went hard with Miranda. After suffering two unfaithful men, and the turmoil it had put her girls through, she didn****'t especially feel she had the generosity of spirit required to extend her precious mental talents towards familiarizing herself with the side salads of philandering socialites. **

**Emily noted the distaste colouring Miranda's eyes a cool slate grey, but it couldn't be helped. "That's exactly what I mean. I realise it's a despicable situation to become privy to, however- it's our **_**job**_**. We need to know who, when and where, so that when some nameless fellow with more money than manners approaches, we can feed Andréa enough information to glide effortlessly through the requisite small talk and free her up for more important and influential conversations. It's crap, and it's petty, but it's what needs to be done. Will there be a problem?"**

**Wordlessly, Miranda shook her head. She needed this job, and she should be grateful that Andréa had given her the opportunity the benefit presented. She couldn't afford to have a problem. **

"**Thank you, Emily," Miranda offered tonelessly as she grabbed the proffered binder and stuffed it unceremoniously into her Mark Jacobs bag. "I suppose I'd better get a move on. Andréa emailed me an epic to-do list at three o'clock this morning. I would've started earlier, but the millinery doesn't open until eight." The older woman offered the first assistant a reserved smile, and left the office, the tails of her Prada trench flapping impatiently in her wake. **

**Miranda slid into the waiting car in front of the majestic Elias-Clark building, the large binder falling out of her purse and onto the soft leather seat beside her. Frowning, she picked up the offending item and with a sense of resignation, began to flip somewhat fiercely through the photographs. While she realised the importance of appearances and public image, Miranda couldn't imagine that anyone sane actually went to such lengths as a Polaroid reference guide to maintain their iconic status. More and more apparent was the fact that Andréa was not, in fact, sane. As far as Miranda was concerned, Andréa was completely cracked. **

**She sighed with a betraying heaviness, causing the driver's eyes to flicker concernedly at her in the rear view. This one's name was Tom, and almost every time Miranda was sent out on a slew of errands, she found the cheerful young man leaning causally against a particularly sexy brand of Runway's town cars, calmly awaiting her arrival. Amidst a maelstrom of high strung, half starved coworkers, Miranda likened Tom to a lifeguard's Zinka Zinc whitened nose. Entertaining to look at, and helpfully protective. **

"**Everything copasetic, Miranda?"**

**She could not belay a smirk at the younger man's archaic surfer lingo. The young, sandy haired driver had most certainly not even been a twinkle in his parents eyes when the phrase was last used in context- yet he spoke as if he and his kaleidoscopic surf board had just been washed up on tawny sands under the blistering Californian sun. **

"**Radical," Miranda murmured, brushing a thoughtful thumb over her lower lip. "Positively fucking radical."**

"**Language, lovely lady," Tom intoned cheerfully, though the edges of his eyes crinkled a little with worry. If sometimes curt, the woman he considered to be the silver fox among ferrets didn't usually lose her cool. **

"**You weren't supposed to hear that," Miranda amended, a little louder. Tom bobbed his head in silent acceptance. "I've had a trying morning."**

**The young man grinned rakishly into the mirror. "You don't need to explain yourself to lowly servants like moi, Miranda. Just keep the swearskis to a minimum. My virgin ears can't hack it."**

**A snort of amusement emanated from the back seat. "If your ears are virgin, Thomas, that must be the only part of your anatomy left un-christened." The young driver howled with laughter, and despite her foul mood, Miranda grinned.**

"**Miranda, my minx- you have **_**no**_** idea." Tom chuckled a little, and while stopped at a red light, turned in his seat to eye the older woman in feigned appraisal. "Or do you?"**

**Miranda lifted her chin and regarded the attractive upstart through heavily lidded eyes. "I can chat with you baby, flirt a little maybe. But does your mother know that you're out?"**

**Tom slapped a tortured hand to his forehead, and dragged it down his face with a groan. "Abba, honey? You shouldn't date yourself like that."**

**Miranda pouted becomingly. "Says the twenty five year old spouting sixties idioms like the reincarnation of Maurice Gibb. Besides," she continued pragmatically, "don't tell me that the throwback likes of you isn't aware of the Mamma Mia movie that just graced the box offices. What did you think of Christine Baranski's performance- and don't tell me you haven't seen it. I'm sure you were camped out there three days before opening night in some dilapidated pup tent you bought off EBay- likely from Woodstock." **

**Tom had the decency to look sheepish. "Maybe I was- but anyway, nerts to Christine Baranski. Did you not **_**see**_** Meryl Streep in that film? She was tragically freakin' hip, and I'm talking gorgeous. No offence to Baroness Baranski of Broadway, but I don't think anyone with eyes was looking twice at her if mamma Meryl was in the scene." **

**Still watching Miranda in the mirror, the young man caught the deep role of blue eyes underneath the bewitching wave of silver hair. He smirked. **

"**You know," he began coyly, "before you got your hair cut, you kinda looked like Mer--- **

**The woman in the back seat snorted disdainfully. "**_**Do not**_** go there young man. I have daughters closer to your age than I am. And it's the crooked nose."**

**Tom raised a plaintive hand. "Sorry, sorry. A little harmless small talk." The young man brought his focus back to the busy New York streets, and in minutes, he pulled up out front of the Taylor millinery, which was fast becoming Miranda Princhek's second home. **

**The young driver leapt from the car, and gallantly swept the door open, as if someone very famous were about to step from within. Shaking her head, Miranda slid out of the seat and began the short walk to the side entrance of the building. Upon approaching the door, she heard a low whistle from the street, and saw Tom standing there, his arms thrown carelessly across his chest. **

"**I always thought her nose was kind of cute!" he bellowed, causing several passers by to stop and stare at him quizzically. **

**Miranda shot a pointed glare over her shoulder, though the high collar of her coat hid a small smile of satisfaction. **


End file.
